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Ex-Wife, Please Have Some Self-Respect

Ex-Wife, Please Have Some Self-Respect

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Chapter 1 No.1

Word Count: 1291    |    Released on: 19/01/2026

he world into streaks of gray and black. The wipers were fighti

g wheel. His knuckles were whit

as l

ing up a dress. A Dior evening gown that Catarina needed for tonigh

mach tighten. Acid burne

ss, Jorden. Don'

ina's assistant, had already called twice. He hadn't answered. He was driving too fast

uck didn't look like lights. They

laned. It crosse

he tires locked. The Volvo spun

metal screaming against metal, a deafening crunch that vi

a

to the chest. The steering column crushed inwar

dark

ot si

white light. He fell. He fe

ain was being pried

ssin

as a sensation. A press

d in the dark. They weren

ure to coagulate an egg yolk. 62.5 degrees Celsius.

emory of a left-hand arpeggio. Th

anatomy of the human heart. The exac

lgorithms. Market volatility. The

o a vessel that had been empty for three years. It hurt. It felt like his neurons were being b

the void, but n

tion co

kness s

ng. 110 over 70.

al. No, it was human,

eactive. He's

like rubbing alcohol and burnt

g down his temples. He was staring at a ceiling ti

? Can you

him, but he knew the type. Tired eyes, caffeine trem

throat felt like it was f

o Jorden's left eye. "You were in a severe acc

running behind his eyelids, green and gold code ca

e rasped. "

ou know wha

brain supplied more. "October 14th. The barometric

the light away, frowning s

t agony flared in his ribcage. He w

's shoulder to keep him down. "A concussion. Multiple contusi

ed it instantly. Intercostal nerve irritation. Inflammation. Manageable thro

justing his IV drip. She looked at him with pity. That familiar look. Th

eel like that h

at the bed

as e

No card. N

was shattered, a spiderwe

e," Jord

nded it to him. "It rang a f

display glitched, colors distorting,

missed

e Va

e Va

e Va

e. Not

didn't put it to his ear. He

piercing the quiet hum o

e for thirty minutes! Did you get the dress? Atticus needs to match his tie

She looked away, e

ared at t

ilating, texting apologies, begging for forgiveness for something that wasn't his faul

t

t... n

hing. He fe

who couldn't be bothered to call him when he didn't show up. A

curity, devotion, desperation-were gone.

ook the

tatus: Liability. Return

ed the v

d monitor for internal bleeding. We usually ask for a next of kin to be present for conse

s eyes, usually warm and pleadi

His voice was ste

re? It's ma

ed out. His hand didn't

signed his name. The signature was

n his hand

reen l

i

"Oh! That must be h

from a foreign language. A label for a job he had j

't swip

ume button on the

zzing

e face down on the

h," Jorden said to the d

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Ex-Wife, Please Have Some Self-Respect
Ex-Wife, Please Have Some Self-Respect
“I was driving through a rainstorm in upstate New York, pushing my old Volvo to the limit just to pick up a Dior gown for my wife, Catarina. She needed it for a gala tonight, where she planned to spend the evening standing next to the man she actually loved, Atticus Deleon. The truck hit me head-on, crossing the center line and sending my car rolling down an embankment in a shriek of twisted metal and shattered glass. As the steering column crushed my chest, my brain didn't see a white light; it was pried open by a digital tsunami, flooding my mind with the "Quantum Archive"-billions of data points on surgery, high-frequency trading, and combat. I woke up in the ICU with three broken ribs and a concussion, but the only thing waiting for me was a screaming voicemail from my wife's assistant. "Jorden, where the hell are you? Catarina has been waiting for thirty minutes! You are so incompetent it's actually impressive." There was no "Are you okay?" or "Are you alive?"-only fury over a ruined dress and a missing tie. While I was being resuscitated, my wife was on Instagram, singing "Endless Love" with Atticus and laughing at my "tantrum." She even called the family lawyer to freeze my credit cards, wanting to make sure I couldn't even buy a coffee without her permission. For three years, I had been the "useful husband," the doormat who apologized whenever she stepped on my toes. But the accident had overwritten my desperation with cold, hard logic, and I realized I had almost died for a woman who viewed me as a liability with a negative return on investment. When Catarina finally stormed into my hospital room to demand an apology for ruining her night, I didn't look at her with the usual puppy-dog eyes. I looked at her with ice in my veins and handed her a manila envelope I had drafted myself. "Sign the divorce papers, Ms. Evans. I'm done being your canary."”